


The Ice Does Not Forgive

by ninazenikcult



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, Shadow and Bone (TV), Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo, The Language of Thorns - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Book 1: Six of Crows, Book 2: Crooked Kingdom, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional Sex, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hate to Love, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Kaz Brekker, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Six of Crows, Love/Hate, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninazenikcult/pseuds/ninazenikcult
Summary: This is the prequel Six of Crows story which focuses on Nina and Matthias's journey from enemies from different sides of two warring nations, to two unlikely allies stranded in the ice plains of Fjerda and are forced to rely on each other to survive their weeks after being shipwrecked.Yet the more time the two spend together, the more they realise- to both their horrors- that what they believe to be hatred towards one another is masking more dangerous and risky emotions that neither are prepared for.There is a degree of canon divergence but is largely accurate to the source material :)
Relationships: Matthias Helvar/Nina Zenik
Comments: 23
Kudos: 25





	1. The Belly of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> any feedback (kudos or comments) would be so appreciated! i write this stuff for fun and because i'm so enthralled by this world and the characters who live in it so i'm so grateful to anyone who takes the time to read it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics are from 'nina cried power' by hozier :)

**Nina**

_And I could cry power_

_Power has been cried by those stronger than me_

_Straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains_

_If you love bein' free_

The ship heaved again with the sway of the ocean and Nina doubled over, clutching her stomach. She was thinner than she had been two weeks ago when the Fjerdan convoy departed from the port in the Wandering Isle and her hip bones jutted out and her cheek bones were sharper. Her skin, which was usually creamy and smooth, flushed with Grisha power, was pallid and tinged green with sea sickness.

Another ferocious lurch and she clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose in her throat. Surely she couldn't be sick anymore? It wasn't like there was anything in her stomach _to_ throw up. Ever since she'd puked through the bars of her cell, aiming at the guards out of spite, they'd been sure not to give her anything to eat. Food was a distant memory Nina tried, and failed, not to dwell on.

The memory of soft waffles and sweet honey cakes at the Little Palace made her stomach clench with homesickness and hunger.

She craved the warmth of her bed, the steadiness of solid earth beneath her feet and the brush of her smooth silk _kefta_ against her skin. That had been the first thing they'd taken from her.

The scarlet robes; tailored by the best Grisha fabrikators in the Second Army. She felt like a phoenix in them, suffused with the power of blood instead of fire as she rose from the ashes of Ravka to fight for her wounded country.

Now in the cell, stripped down to a roughspun smock and shivering in the corner of a dank Fjerdan cell, she was back to being the scared little girl who had been bullied in a grey Ravkan orphanage. She closed her eyes and dreamed of the rush of Grisha magic, the pulse of a human heart at the tips of her fingers, the feeling of a thousand years of ancient power uncoiling in her chest.

Then she would open her eyes and her hands were cold and chaffed raw from Fjerdan bonds. Nina felt nothing in the air except a miserable hopelessness that writhed in her stomach like a parasite.

There was a clang of a door opening and her head snapped up.

It wasn't an unexpected sound.

Before anything, she was a spy and the first thing she had begun taking note of after being locked in her cell was the changing of the guards. It happened every four hours. Or so she estimated.

Pushing back the tangled mess of her dark hair, she watched the guards exchange places.

The breath caught in her throat and her vision flared red.

It was him.

The Drüskelle all looked the same to her; offensively tall, pale hair, cut features and cruel eyes.

But he was different. Sometimes she saw him when she slept, and when he flickered into focus her dreams fractured into nightmares.

It was the soldier who captured her, tightened the rope on her wrists and pressed his cool blade against her throat before she could run. It was because of him that she was trapped in the belly of this black iron ship and bound for the gallows in the Ice Court.

She'd learned his name when he'd first been assigned to patrol her cell.

Helvar.

She'd muttered it to herself, accompanied by every foul word she could think of in every language she knew. The name was sour on her tongue.

Like the others, Helvar was tall. Nina herself was a good five foot eleven but he still towered over her. He was broad-shouldered, with arms corded with muscle and one of his strong hands permanently gripped the gleaming pistol that was issued to all the Drüskelle.

It was his eyes, however, that she remembered the most.

Like chips of clear blue ice.

"Good luck, Helvar," said the guard Helvar was replacing and clapped him on the back with a grin. "She looks like she's going to be sick again. Give her a good slap if she does. Mikhail says that will shut her up."

Nina could attest to that. After hurling on one of her guards— Mikhail— he'd open the bars to her cell and smacked her with the back of his palm so hard she'd seen stars and tasted blood from where her lip split.

Helvar glanced from the guard speaking to Nina huddled in the corner of her cell. She pushed back her shoulders and tilted her chin up, offering him a smirk worthy of Zoya Nazyalensky herself. For the first time, Nina was thrilled to have been a victim of Zoya's; only from the queen of storms and lightning herself could Nina have learned how to perfect cold superiority.

Helvar's gaze slipped to her face. Her heart quickened, but she held his ice-blue stare. His eyes flicked down to her bruised lip and his jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"We aren't supposed to touch the prisoners, Vidar," he said, turning back to face the other soldier. The timbre of his deep voice filled the dark cell.

The other guard, Vidar, shrugged. "They're Grisha. What does it really matter?"

A prickle of hot anger shot down her spine and she pressed her lips together. It would have been easy to snap, to call them bigoted pigs who only sought to punish what they did not understand… Her lip throbbed with the memory of the slap.

_Win the war not the battle_ , she reminded herself, though her fingers itched to grab hold of their heartbeats and crush them to nothing in her fist. Her bonds had rarely felt so heavy.

"Anyway," Vidar said, holstering his gun. "Just make sure this bitch doesn't cause anymore trouble or Commander Brum will have our heads. She's a Heartrender and the Grisha value blood witches. It is our duty to make sure she burns."

Nina raised an eyebrow, the Nazyalensky smirk still curling her lips, but on the inside fear clawed up her throat at the thought of the pyres. She had seen enough of them when the Second Army had not reached endangered Grisha in time. The scent of charred flesh and burnt bone prickled at Nina's nose as frantic Grisha screams rang in her ears.

"The pyres are illegal," Helvar said, his voice disdainful. Vidar frowned at him and shouldered his way past. The enormous blonde watched him leave with the glowering expression that seemed a prerequisite of a Drüskelle.

"If I'm not sick on you, I swear it's not from lack of effort," Nina said, unable to stop herself. "You haven't given me anything to eat in almost a week otherwise I assure you would be covered in chunks of—"

"Be quiet," Helvar snapped, eyes flashing in warning. "You do realise you are the prisoner and I am the soldier?"

"I'm a soldier too," she said indignantly. "Isn't that the whole reason I'm in this cage in the first place?"

"You are a Grisha. And it's a cell, not a cage."

"And you are a playground bully. You and all your little friends." There was nothing little about them. All the Drüskelle were at least six and half feet but she relished in the insult that burned in his bright blue eyes.

"Playground bullies don't carry guns."

"Depends on the playground."

"Quiet, witch."

"That was not politically correct," she muttered, stretching out on the rotted bench like a queen lounging on a gilded throne.

Helvar ignored her, his brows drawn tight with irritation.

Inwardly, her heart was racing from fear of punishment. What would it be this time? Another blow to the face? Another week without food? During her training at the Little Palace, she'd heard stories of the Fjerdans cutting off fingers and wearing them as trophies. Though admittedly, she had a strong suspicion Baghra had started that particular rumour to scare the youngest Grisha into working harder.

Though she might be able to avoid arguments with Vidar and the other soldiers, Helvar was different. He was the reason she would die in a few days surrounded by ice and cold Fjerdan judgement.

"How far are we from Djerholm?" she asked. "I'm trying to work out how many days I have left to live. It's certainly one of the more morbid party games. Though I suppose you play pin the broadsword on the Grisha or something like that."

Silence.

Annoying him was less fun when he didn't accept the bait.

Nina sighed and lay across the bench. She closed her eyes and recounted stories of the saints. _Sankta Margaretha, Sankta Anastasia, Sankt Kho, Sankta Neyar, Sankta Vasilka, Sankt Felix, Sankt Demyan…_

She had just reached Sankt Juris, the patron saint of soldiers, when a groan issued from the opposite corner of the cell.

Nina raised her head to watch the ball of rags stir and released a moan.

When she'd first been locked in the cell, the first thing she had done was try to talk to her cellmate. The man was Fjerdan with a weather-beaten face and crinkled black eyes like a scarab beetle. He'd talked to her for the first few days. He'd been kind to her, telling her stories of his life as a cabbage farmer on the south west coast. He told her about his wife and how she pickled spiced peaches in cloves and thick syrup that they ate during the long winter months. There was something comforting about his stories.

Nina couldn't remember the last time she had truly relished life in that way. Her mind had always been so fixed on the next battle, the next struggle, the next loss that she had never taken the time to sit back and savour the simple delight of the first flower of spring or the flush of sunrise or the glimmer of starlight against a dark winter night.

But after almost two week stuck in the dark, roiling belly of the ship the farmer, Einar, had slowly spiralled. He stopped speaking three days before and now only sat in the corner of their shared cell with his head hanging between his knees.

"Einar?" Nina asked, her voice losing the venom she'd shot at Helvar. Now she spoke with all the warmth and gentleness she could muster. "Einar, can I help?"

The farmer's frail shoulders trembled with tears and a sob loosed from his lips. The sound was gutting. A raw, painful sound drawn from his chest that made her own throat tight with the need to cry with him. She would not give the Fjerdans the satisfaction.

"Oh, Einar," she murmured and slid down beside him.

"Kriga," he hiccupped and turned his face to hers. His eyes were red-rimmed and his papery skin mottled with tears. "My cat, Kriga. There'll be no one to feed her. She will be hungry. She needs me—" The old man made to stand up but weakened by the time spent in the cells, collapsed back to the floor. Tears welled in her own eyes and her hands flexed instinctively, as if she could sap the hurt from his prone body. If her hands were free she could soothe his heartbeat, calm his nerves.

What was she really without her Heartrending? Just a girl who didn't know how to comfort a grieving man.

"My wife," Einar wept. "Ilsa. She… she needs me, too. So beautiful, she is. I do not want to leave her. She will be all alone. I cannot leave her." His panicked eyes cast around the cell wildly. "Ilsa! Ilsa, I am coming, _hjäanskär_!" His desperate pleas reverberated through the cell.

It broke Nina's heart knowing that they would never be answered.

Fury burst through her sadness with the force of a bullet. With a furious hiss she whirled around and stormed over to the bars of the cell. Helvar's eyes were downcast, a slight crease between his brows.

"Are you proud of yourself?" she shouted, the blood roaring in her ears. "Look at him! He is a scared old man who just wants to sit by the fire with his wife, yet you and your comrades feel the need to torment him and put a bullet between his eyes just for living!"

His fists tightened at his sides, his knuckles blanching snow white.

"Get him under control," he gritted out.

Nina wanted to scream.

"No. Fetch me some water." Her voice was superbly contemptuous.

Fury flashed across the drüskelle's face. "You do not command me, witch."

"You told me to get him under control. The poor man is dehydrated and delirious. You want him under control? Fetch me some Saints-forsaken water, or are you as stupid as you are tall?"

His eyes darkened to the fierce bruising blue of an encroaching thunderstorm. "Do not attempt to provoke me, _Drüsje_. You will stand trial in the Ice Court for your crimes against Fjerda. Speak to me like that one more time and I will be more than happy to testify against you in that courtroom and teach you the hard way that it would be better for you to hold your tongue." His voice was as dark and cold as the dark northern waters that rocked the ship.

Zoya Nazyalensky had once scolded Nina for her recklessness. _You need to learn to be less… big. You're too loud, too effusive, too memorable. You take too many risks_ , she had said.

It was only those words of derision from the girl Nina had idolised that prevented her from spitting in the Drüskelle's face.

"Water," she muttered. "Please."

Helvar's eyes still burned, but he turned on his heel, opened the door and shouted for another guard. Moments later, Vidar reappeared and smirked at Nina.

"I'll give you your water, _Drüsje_." Helvar said, his eyes flickering over Einar's crumpled form. For a split second, Nina was certain that something like regret flashed over his face. But a heartbeat later he vanished from the door.

"I see Helvar is at your beck and call," Vidar said. "Any reason for his special treatment?" His eyes dragged over her body suggestively and she gritted her teeth but kept her face blank.

"My wit, my charm, my addictive charisma?" she suggested.

"If you are Helvar's whore you should just tell me," Vidar said, carelessly flicking dust from his gleaming sword.

Outrage and shock froze her in place. Helvar's whore? Her blood heated in her veins like molten lead at the implication. The thought of bedding a Drüskelle made Nina want to be sick all over again.

_Don't let him see how he gets to you_ , she reprimanded.

"You mean Helvar? Enormous and blonde boy? I know the description matches every other guard here but even so."

"Yes, Helvar."

Matthias Helvar. His name matched the man; broad, powerful, formidable.

"Jealous?" she asked, tilting her head mockingly. "Of me or him? No shame either way," she added with a wink.

His lip curled into a sneer. "I wouldn't let a Grisha warm my sheets if you were the only creature alive. Was that confirmation then?"

"No. But even if it was, why would I ever tell you?"

"If you say that Helvar tumbled you, you can take him down to the gallows with you. Consorting with Grisha is a sin in Fjerda. A capital offense. If you really want payback for him turning you over, you'll tell the authorities when we dock."

Nina had never so badly wanted to kill a man so badly before. No, she wanted more than that. She wanted to crush his heart and wear the bloody remains as a necklace. Nina wanted to hurt Helvar. She wanted her revenge. But she would never sink so low. She didn't believe you had to love someone to spend the night with them, but there was still something so intrinsically intimate and sacred in enjoying the closeness of another person.

It was a sanctity she would never violate.

But the spy in her refused to leave this well unplumbed.

"They would never believe a Grisha. All he would have to do was deny it and the case would be closed."

"Ah, but you see, I would testify with you. Your confession certainly wouldn't be enough. But the combination of it and my word would be sufficient for a Fjerdan jury."

"And why, Saints help me, do you want to see your brother swing?"

"Simple." Vidar smiled like a cat about to pounce. "He's Jarl Brum's prodigy. The rest of us get scraps. Remove Helvar from the equation and problem solved, Djel rest his soul. Now, do we have a deal? I'll put in a word for you at your trial. I can make sure you don't hang."

Nina paused, staring into his smoke-grey eyes like she was looking down the barrel of a gun, which, she reminded herself, she might as well be.

"Helvar is not a guiltless man, but he is innocent of what you accuse him of," she said. "You Drüskelle may have no spine, but us Ravkans, us _Grisha_ , we value integrity and rectitude. I only hope that one day you pull your head out of your arse long enough to find some." And she spat at his feet.

For a moment, time stood still.

Vidar watched her like a wolf to a lamb. A muscle feathered in his jaw and she swallowed, hands clammy and clenched into fists. He let out a sudden, feral roar and wrenched the cell door open.

"How dare you?" he bellowed and stormed towards her.

With her hands bound tightly by the ropes she had no way of defending herself. Fear rolled over Nina like an icy wave breaking on rocks. She backed away but in the tiny cell there was nowhere to run to.

Einar whimpered on the floor and Vidar kicked him hard in the face. Blood spurted hot and dark from the old man's mouth.

"No!" Nina screamed. "Don't—" but her words were cut off when Vidar seized her by the throat and swept her up off the floor.

He held her with a vise-like grip, his broad fingers bruising her throat as she scrabbled fruitlessly at him with her bound hands.

"This is how you and your fellow Grisha heathens kill fine Fjerdan soldiers, isn't it?" he hissed, his breath sour and hot on her face. "You crush our windpipes, pulp our hearts and collapse our lungs. Let's see how much you enjoy having the air choked out of you."

His fingers tightened and Nina tried to suck in a breath but her throat was tight as he gripped her even harder. Black spots blurred her vision and the back of her neck felt hot with panic as she writhed and struggled in his death hold.

Not like this, oh Saints, not like this, she begged inwardly. She wanted to die on a bed of Kerch waffles with a glass of strong _kvas_ and dressed in her finest crimson _kefta_.

This could not be the end of Nina Zenik.

Surely it was not in the stars for her to be choked to death by a lecherous drüskelle in the bowels of the enemy? Surely her Saints were kinder than that? Surely after all she had given to Ravka, to her king and her country? Surely—

But there was nothing she could do.

As the cell grew darker and darker, her eyes rolled back into her head and her flailing arms became slack.

_At least you didn't beg._

With a bone-jarring thump, she fell to the floor. Air flooded into her lungs and she took deep gulps of air like a madman stumbling upon an oasis after a week in desert sun. She coughed, eyes watering as she staggered to her feet and fell back against the bench.

It had come so close. The darkness, the fire in her lungs, the iron grip around her throat—

Her vision swam back into focus in jerky flashes.

Vidar had been pulled off of her and was pinned against the bars of her cell by a familiar figure.

The breath caught in Nina's throat again when she realised it was Helvar.

His hands were fisted in Vidar' grey acolyte tunic, holding him against the bars as the latter fought to seize Nina again.

"Stop," Helvar shouted, his voice shuddering through her bones.

After several more moments, Vidar's vicious attempts to reach her stopped and he wrenched himself out of Helvar's grip and straightened his robes. His neck and cheeks were scarlet and mottled with rage as he breathed deeply.

Nina's own chest rose and fell quickly as she made up for all her lost air.

"Go back to the Drüskelle quarters," Helvar said to Vidar. Not a question, a command.

Vidar scowled at him. "A true patriot would have let me finish the job. You must really want her in your bed," he spat out, pushing past Helvar before he had time to reply, and stormed from the cell.

She had never known a silence as heavy as the one that followed the soldier's exit.

Nina's bound hands drifted shakily to her throat. Raised lacerations streaked her skin and her body still felt giddy with adrenaline, as if Squaller lightning. It wasn't a good feeling, like being burned slowly from the inside.

Nina was dangerously close to tears.

"Are you alright?" Helvar asked after an interminable silence.

"Don't talk to me," she whispered, not trusting her voice not to crack like broken glass. "Just… I don't know, Fjerdan. Alright? I don't know!" She screamed the last three words at him, hurled them at his chest like throwing knives. Their serrated edges seemed to land because he took several steps back, though his eyes remained stony and his jaw tight.

"The water," he muttered, and held out the bucket to her. "It's clean."

She looked up at him through her dirty hair and damp lashes and shook her head slowly.

"Nothing here is clean."


	2. Silence of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics are from 'bad idea!' by girl in red :)

**Matthias.**

_I'_ _m totally fucked_

_It was a bad idea_

_To think I could stop_

_Was such a bad idea_

_I can't get enough_

Matthias's jaw ached from gritting his teeth as he watched the _drüsje_ in the cell.

She sat beside the old man, using a strip of cloth torn from her smock and dipped in the water from the bucket he gave her to wipe away the blood that smeared the man's mouth and chin. Red dripped to the man's thin chest as his breath rattled out in wheezy rasps. Tears traced silver tracks through the blood and dirt and his frail shoulders shook with sobs.

"Here," the girl said, lifting the pail of water towards him. "This will make you feel better. Just take a sip."

The old man scooped a handful of water and drank deeply. His pinched expression dissolved into one made from deep wrinkles and lines of sorrow.

"Ilsa… Kriga… I want to go home," he mumbled thickly.

The witch stroked her thumb across the old man's papery cheek, her eyes shining with unshed tears of her own.

"I know," she murmured, wiping away the last traces of scarlet. "I want to go home too."

Matthias wanted to look away.

It felt indecent to watch. Crying always made him uncomfortable. One of the first things he'd learned at the Ice Court during his training as a Drüskelle novitiate was to never cry. If people saw weakness they saw opportunity to strike and to conquer. Matthias had already had enough of loss, he would not show weakness and he would never lose anything again.

It was a Grisha who took from him before.

Grisha magic that snuffed out the flame of family and happiness and peace that had burned within Matthias when he was a boy. The Drüskelle had given him a cause, a crusade against those witches and he would not falter.

So why did his stomach twist at the sight of the prone old man begging for home and the _drüsje_ who held him?

His jaw tightened again.

The ship lurched suddenly and he clutched an iron bracing on the wall to stop himself being flung across the room. The girl and the old man did not have anything to hold onto and were thrown forward into the cell's iron bars with a sickening crack. A string of colourful curses in several different languages Matthias didn't know streamed from the girl's mouth as she righted herself. The impact had split the skin across her cheekbone and thin drips of red trickled down her cheek.

"Fucking brilliant," she muttered, touching a fingertip to the cut and wincing. Matthias's eyes drifted to her fingertips.

She had pretty hands. That was one of the first things he'd noticed about her back in the Wandering Isle as she stood before him and his comrades and twirled a lock of her dark hair around a long, graceful finger. Her hands had looked soft, too. So different to his hands that were roughened and calloused from years of training with broadswords and steel. Her hands reminded him of carnivorous plants he'd read about in the classrooms of the Ice Court. They had colourful blossoms and sweet scents to tempt their prey before their jaws closed around them.

That was what the _drüsje_ was like. Pretty on the outside, with her full hips, pink lips and wide green eyes that could swallow you whole. Not that he had been looking. She was an enticing trap, but no matter how badly Matthias was tempted to touch her hands and see if her skin was as soft as it looked, he would not cave.

Now, however, her fingernails were black with grime, chipped into ragged claws and her fingertips slicked with her own blood. It was easier to see her like this. Like she was the monster he knew was at the core of every Grisha. Like she was some feral beast rather than the beautiful girl with eyes and a face Matthias saw in his dreams. _No_ , he reminded himself, _not dreams; nightmares_.

The _drüsje_ wiped the blood on her skirt with a scowl.

Her blood unsettled him. In his years serving as a soldier with the Drüskelle, Matthias had seen so much witch blood, all of it red. The sight of her blood should not bother him so much.

"Einar, are you alright?" she asked, turning to the old man who had staggered to his feet dazedly.

The man blinked once and nodded, tottering back to his corner of the cell and curling into a ball.

"No!" the girl cried, rushing over the pail that had fallen over when the ship, the water seeping through the cracks in the floor. Matthias opened his mouth, though to say what he was not sure.

The girl glared at Matthias, her eyes flashing green fire.

"Fjerdan ships can't even stay up straight," she scoffed.

Matthias bristled at the implication and his free hand flexed into a fist. "There is a storm. That's what the turbulence was. Now be quiet."

"Did you know that Grisha Squallers can stop a storm with a snap of their fingers or summon a tempest with the flick of a wrist?" the girl asked, leaning her forehead against the metal.

"I know more about your witchcraft than you may think," he replied, voice low and burdened with memory. His mother, father, his baby sister… all of them ashes on the unyielding Fjerdan wind.

"I am not a witch," the girl murmured. He could tell she was talking more to herself than to him. Her eyes flickered shut and she muttered to herself in Ravkan, too quickly for Matthias to understand.

There was a long silence. This didn't bother him much. It was easier than her voice, her scathing laughter, her exasperated tones… the sound of her tears.

Nothingness was preferable.

"Can I have some more water?" she asked, looking at him from beneath those thick lashes. Of course she was putting on her charm for him, pouting those plump lips and widening those gem-green eyes. It wouldn't work on Matthias. She sighed when he said nothing, glancing over her shoulder and turning back to him with a crease between her brow. "I know you want to punish me. And I understand that. You're a Drüskelle and I'm an enemy soldier. But that man is old and tired and he's running a fever and needs water. You talk about a fair trial? Well, that man shall not live to reach Djerholm if you do not help."

Matthias glanced at the man's prone form and he swallowed hard. The man was back to muttering about his wife and cat, begging to go home.

"I can't," he replied brusquely.

"Please, he is sick and—"

"No," Matthias shook his head. "Listen to me; I _cannot_. If I leave to get you your water, I will have to call another guard here to monitor you. The only other guard in this sector of the ship is Vidar."

The image of the girl scrabbling at Vidar's hands as he pinned her to the cell wall made the hairs on the back of Matthias's neck prickle with an anger he couldn't place. He didn't like the thought of Vidar's hands on the girl; he didn't like the thought of anyone's hands on her. It wasn't that he cared for the girl. No, it would simply be unhonourable to leave her in danger. _Yes_ , Matthias thought, _yes, that must be it_. He was a soldier not a sadist and did not revel in violence and power the way many of his Drüskelle brethren did.

Something like surprise flashed in the depths of those gem-green eyes. "Oh," was all she said, taking several steps back from the bars. "I… Right."

Matthias's eyes drifted back to the hunched old man, the one who cried for home. There it was again; that sharp twist of guilt in his chest. If only he'd been there—

"Here." Before he knew what he was saying or doing, he drew out the reindeer waterskin and held it out to her through the bars. "It may help him."

The girl looked at him with pinched brows, verdant eyes scanning him with clear calculation. Behind her the old man coughed. It was a vile, hacking sound that rattled from his chest and made Matthias flinch. She looked between him and the farmer, her mistrust melting to curiosity.

"This… this isn't a trick is it?"

"It is honourable." Matthias paused before adding, "Besides, if it were a trick I would not be likely to tell you, would I?"

The corners of her lips twitched up into what he was certain was the ghost of a smile. It flashed across her face and even the faint trace of it seemed to light up her face and strip away the past fortnight of captivity. A part of him screamed that it was a mirage, like a spark of flame in a dark night. Yet there was a louder voice that told him to appreciate the soft beauty that flashed before him, to take it and hold it to his chest for warmth; there was rarely anything beautiful in the life of the Drüskelle. They found charm in tempered steel and blood, not in the rare smile of a girl who made him feel like—

Matthias clenched his jaw.

She was watching him with an expression he couldn't decipher. Somewhere between dislike and curiosity.

"Why did you give me the water the first time?" she asked, head tilted.

"The Drüskelle are the servants of Djel, his blade incarnate. We have a duty to be honourable in his name, even to _drüsje_ like you. We are hard and fair, not pointlessly cruel." There was a silence where she stared at him intently, those luminous green eyes sparking.

"I don't know," she said lightly. "Your friend seemed to have a penchant for pointless cruelty."

"He was out of line. I… It will be dealt with."

"You aren't going to ask what I did to deserve it?"

Matthias dropped the waterskin into her hands, turning his back to her and stalking off to sit on the bench facing the cell. "No."

"Why?"

He ignored her.

"You are confusing, Fjerdan. But perhaps you are not rotten to the core." Sadness flickered in her eyes as she took him in. "It's a shame what they have done to you. I suspect you have a good heart, but your head is poisoned and you will not hear of an antidote."

"I have never been one for riddles."

"That's what I mean," she sighed. "Kindness. Understanding. Equality… they should not be riddles to you."

"I am all of those things to those who have earned them."

"You don't _earn_ those things, you are owed them until you do something deserving of punishment. But your people have decided that my crime is my existence, my nature; things that are beyond my control."

There was a long silence as he struggled to find the right words, but she interrupted his thoughts.

"You ought to be careful of that Vidar boy. He has a thing about you, Fjerdan. I'm only telling you this because of the waterskin. But you should watch out for him. He is a snake."

He flicked his gaze to hers, brows drawn. Vidar had always been the least favourite of Matthias's brethren in the Drüskelle. Since they were young, Vidar had always been a sour bully, picking on the younger novitiates, kicking the patrol dogs if they pulled too hard on the leashes, making vulgar jokes about the young women in the villages they stayed in.

"I know what he is made of," he replied stonily. "I do not need you to tell me." He hesitated before adding in a rush, like he didn't mean to say the words, "But I didn't think he would hurt you. I am sorry for that, _drüsje_."

"You really shouldn't end an apology by calling a lady a witch. I performed in a cabaret quartet in a Kerch travelling circus once, and they came up with a delightful array of nicknames for me. You could always use those instead. They'd put some colour in your cheeks." She winked and Matthias did indeed feel an uncomfortable flush mottle his neck and cheeks.

He opened his mouth to tell her to be quiet when the ship lurched suddenly, catching him off guard and sending him slamming into the cold iron wall.

White-hot pain exploded at the back of his head and reached behind himself to feel a trickle of blood. The girl was white-faced, clinging to the bars of the cell. Her green eyes were wide and terrified as the ship swayed upright.

But something was wrong.

Shouts and the sound of thundering boots echoed clanged beyond the cell room and Matthias blinked through his pain, trying to catch what they were saying.

"Breach! Breach!" a voice boomed, the sound imbued with terror. Matthias stood up straight, grappling for the broadsword at his hip.

"Stay here!" he shouted at the girl and wrenched open the door, trying not to fall as the ship took another plunging pitch.

"Where else would I be going?" she shouted and banged her fist hard against the bars of the cell. "You can't just leave! What's going on?"

Matthias turned back to face her, eyes skimming her flushed face and dancing eyes. Even if something happened tonight and he never saw her in the flesh again, he knew somehow that he would never forget the geography of her, from her pretty face to her curving body to those bottle-green eyes that blazed. He hated himself for it, and he hated her just as much.

He turned to leave, trying to block out her panicked shouts. But he seemed unable to move, not without…

"You will be safe," he said over his shoulder. "I will come back."

_Why did you say that?_ He chastised himself as he ran down the corridor, the sword a grounding weight in his hands, centring him in the sway of the angry sea.

Perhaps it had been the way she looked to him for answers, perhaps it was because he was the one who had brought her into the belly of this iron beast… Did he feel like he owed her something? Reassurance? Matthias didn't know and was not given time to dwell.

Another roiling lurch and he was flung forward, making him bite down on his lip so hard he tasted blood.

More clamoured shouts and frantic wails. The former in Fjerdan, the latter in Ravkan.

The door at the end of the corridor was bolted shut by a circular steel door, air-locked and sealed in case of a Grisha escape ploy. Matthias, fighting the sway of the ship as it pitched to the left once more, he threw himself at it, seizing hold of the wheel.

He was about to turn it when the metal groaned. Taken aback, he froze, hands still clamped on the turning-wheel. Listening carefully, a chill writhed up his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It reminded him of when, during his Drüskelle training, his division had been forced to trek over the prairies and grasslands in the far south of Fjerda where the ice thawed in summer, leaving behind a bone-dry sweltering heat. The humid air seemed to crackle with electricity the night before a storm as they marched. Matthias had felt it then, smelt the hurricane and lightning on the cloistered air, knowing something bad was going to happen. Just as he had sensed, the storm had come the next hour.

He felt the same thing now. The shiver of unease, the knowledge that beyond the door was something that would ruin him.

"Djel, give me courage" he muttered to himself, tightening his grip on the sword's handle. Whatever was happening, Matthias had to know. He pressed his ear against the metal and his heart plunged to his stomach. A rushing sound vibrated through the heavy metal, exactly like…

Like fast-moving, uncontrollable water.

The sword that he so often turned to for comfort was a dead weight in his hand now. Water did not yield to steel. As the roar of water on the other side of the door pitched even louder, the door gave a low groan and the creaking of strained bolts filled the air, growing louder and louder until—

Without conscious thought, he threw himself back, head striking the steel floor as blinding pain flared at the back of his skull. He skidded along the floor with the force of the ship's teeter just as the heavy steel door burst open, crashing to the floor.

The icy water hit him in a monstrous roar of salt and sea.

He shouted his curses to Djel as pain from the frigid ocean pierced his skin like a thousand white-hot knives. His muscles tensed in agony, the cold seeming to burrow beneath his flesh and into his bones. For a moment, he thought he might die from the shock.

_Fight this_ , a voice at the back of his mind said. The voice was calm and clear, like a prayer spoken across the ice. _Get up and fight this. Live, Helvar, or die trying_.

But his breath was white fire in his lungs and he was too cold to move.

The water was rising, the black ocean rising in the corridor. In a weak burst, he threw himself at once of the metal braces and clung to it as the water rose higher. It was at his waist, then his ribs and soon it was up to his neck. He tilted his head back, gulping in what he knew would be his last breaths. His vision fogged out as the dull pain at the back of his head intensified.

For whatever reason, when he closed his eyes, he could see her.

Bright green eyes that were wide with fear.

As the water closed over his face and the darkness crept with it, he was certain he could hear her screaming his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i haven't updated in ages, but i'll try to get on top of it! hope you enjoy matthias's chapter and don't worry, the romance will begin burning more in the coming chapters, i've got some good stuff planned ;) and thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> congratulations if you made it this far!! any comments are always ~hugely~ appreciated :)


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